"I'd like you to review this case," Bruce says, and Tim looks up from where he's stretching on the mats. He's only been training for a few weeks, and so far the only routine he's noticing is that there isn't much of a routine. Everything comes in a different order every night, and sometimes he's left alone with only Alfred to spot him when something goes wrong in the city. Tim finishes a ten count over his right thigh - his flexibility is improving - and then straightens up and shakes his legs out before standing and brushing himself down.

It's cool in the cave - a constant fifty-five degrees at this depth, and there are goosebumps on Tim's bare legs. He's wearing running shorts and a t-shirt, because despite the temperature, he expected to be sweating pretty soon. He thought they were going to do more ring work tonight, but Bruce seems to have other plans. Oh well. Tim's shoulders are't complaining.

He crosses the cave to the huge computer banks where Bruce is sitting - Dick calls the chair the Bat-Throne, but he's pretty sure Bruce doesn't have a name for it at all. It does look a little like a throne, Tim thinks as he approaches. Maybe it's just Bruce's bearing. When he's down here, just himself, without any of the masks he wears, Tim doesn't have to stretch to imagine him as some kind of lord or king, surveying his domain. He's so eminently *confident* in his own skin, and it makes Tim jealous even as it draws him to the older man - it's a trait that Dick has, too, in spades.

"You know who this is." Bruce says as Tim comes to stand beside him, and it isn't a question so Tim wracks his brain even harder. The picture is of a man in his fifties, dark brown hair graying at the temples, a scar at the corner of his upper lip.

"He's...with the Sabatinos," Tim says, and once he realizes that, the name falls into his mouth. "Louie Torregrossa. He was an enforcer, but he married into the family and now he's a capo. He's...sixth? In the succession? If Jimmy Bernadino goes down-"

"Fifth." Bruce corrects, without acknowledging the rest, but the corner of his mouth twitches and Tim knows that he was right. "Oscar de Luca was found in the trunk of his town car this morning."

A thrill shoots through Tim at the pronouncement. He'd been right. Completely, one hundred percent right, except for the murder, and how could he have known that? It hadn't been in the papers. He fights his sudden glee and keeps his face as steady as he can, nodding once in acknowledgment as Bruce brings up a data file. He has to step forward to read it, and he tries to do it without getting between Bruce and the screen, but the font is small. Tim leans somewhat awkwardly over Bruce's knee, and Bruce's hand - gauntlet-free for once - comes up to rest on his back, bracing him. The touch is somewhat startling, but Tim takes it as an invitation to rest his hand on the arm of Bruce's chair so that he can lean a little closer.

He whistles when he sees the list of crimes Bruce has pinned on Torregrossa without enough evidence for prosecution. "Wow."

"Hn," Bruce says, and Tim thinks maybe the sound was something like a laugh. "He's not so hands on, these days - not for business, anyway. It's easier and safer to delegate. But he has a weakness for young women, and a considerable temper. In the last year and a half I've had reason to suspect him in the deaths of six girls - mostly prostitutes. One of them," he striks a key and the screen clears, bringing up a new image of a young woman with dark hair teased high on her head and too much mascara around her rather startling blue eyes. "Was the sister of this woman," another click, and the picture is replaced by another, this woman older and more careworn.

"Oh," Tim says, because he knows her face. "She's...uh. I can't remember her name. But she's a madame on the East Side."

"Lisa Agostino. A powerful woman with powerful clients." Bruce says. His hand drifts absently down Tim's back, and Tim shivers a little and leans into the warmth of it. He is still getting used to being touched on a regular basis. Mostly when Bruce touched him, though, it was for training or therapeutic purposes. Tim bites his lip and tries to remember if Bruce has touched him like this, casually, before. His mind seizes onto a moment two nights ago when they'd made their way up the stairs after training and Bruce's hand had brushed Tim's back as they ducked through the clock.

Was that the only time? No, they'd started talking yesterday while Tim was taking a breather on the beam, straddling the wood and catching his breath, and Bruce's hand had fallen on Tim's knee after a guesture. It had only lingered for a moment, but there had been a gentle squeeze before the release, and the touch had made Tim flush.

Tim shifts awkwardly at the memory, entirely too aware of his flimsy shorts. How had Dick patrolled in so little? Probably by not being a pervert, Tim thinks absently, and tugs at the hem of his shirt, pulling it down as far as it will go just in case. Also, by having better legs, but that thought isn't helping.

Bruce's chair shifts a little, suddenly, and Tim tumbles forward toward Bruce's lap. He has just enough time for a flare of panicked embarrassment, and then Bruce catches him by the arm, keeping him from planting his face firmly - well. Tim swallows. Bruce tugs, and Tim follows the pull unquestioningly, only freezing in surprise when Bruce guides him down to sit on his knee. "Sorry. I'll have to get you a chair of your own."

Tim isn't sure what to do, so he sits ramrod straight with his hands squeezed into tight fists. He is sitting in Bruce's *lap*. This isn't exactly a position he'd ever have expected to find himself in. He swallows hard, again, and tries to control his breathing.

"Agostino contacted me via one of her girls, earlier tonight. She provided a dossier with evidence implicating Torregrossa in two murders, including that of her sister, and several sex crimes including four against minors, the youngest of whom was twelve years old."

Tim can, at least, see the screen properly from here, so when the file opens up, he iss able to read it. He whistles again. "Think it will stick?"

"If she and her girls testify, then yes, I believe so. The problem is, Agostino took the opportunity to foist a murder off on Torregrossa that she committed herself, last year. I haven't been able to locate the murder weapon, and none of her girls are talking. The case hasn't been high priority for the police because the victim was wanted for several counts of sexual assault, already, and it's been assumed a sort of rough justice had been done."

Tim nods. He's trying to keep very still, but Bruce's leg keeps shifting under him minutely, forcing him to actively seek his balance.

"What I need," Bruce says as he leans forward and cups Tim's waist casually in one hand, "is a way to separate the charges. Agostino isn't going to testify if she believes we have a way to implicate her." *We* Tim thinks giddily when Bruce says it, and digs his nails into his palm. "We'll be watching her carefully, looking for any signs-" his grip tightens a little, dragging Tim back a few inches until he is straddling Bruce's leg instead of just perched on it, "of how we can catch her out."

Tim feels a bead of sweat run down his back. Did he think the cave was cold before? Because it certainly isn't *now.* How can Bruce sit there so casually with Tim in his *lap,* like this is something that *happens*? Had Dick sat here like this? Had Jason? Tim has a hard time picturing it. Is it because he's shorter than they had been? But he isn't *that* much shorter than Dick had been when he'd started. Dick had been younger, though. And Bruce is waiting for a response of some kind. Tim runs the last few seconds of conversation back in his head. "The women who work for her - how loyal are they? Does she treat them well?"

"Hn," Bruce says. His thumb moves against Tim's side, rucking up his shirt and pressing underneath to stroke the ticklish skin at his side. "Some of them have been with her for a long time."

"Maybe the younger girls, then? They might-" he breaks off as Bruce's hand slides around his waist to rest below his navel, pressing flat just above Tim's waistband, his thumb and first two fingers tucked underneath Tim's shirt. Tim sucks in a breath and looks down, his composure suddenly shattered. Bruce *presses*, and Tim slides back, losing his balance as Bruce's knee suddenly rises, tipping him back against the older man's chest. Oh, god. Tim can feel - Bruce is *hard*. As hard as Tim, even, which doesn't seem *possible* but - "Bruce, I don't think this is a good-"

Tim feels Bruce's lips press to his ear, feels hot breath on his cheek. "Robin," he growls, Batman-deep, and Tim goes boneless against him, lets his legs spread at Bruce's urging, looks down as that broad, scarred hand slips down to cup him through his shorts. Tim whimpers and bucks, once, twice, and then he's coming, shockingly fast and hard, his whole body taut as the spasms wrack him. "Robin," Batman whispers in his ear again, softer this time, and Tim just moans.

Bruce squeezes him gently one more time, then lets him go. He strokes his hand up under Tim's shirt, over his thin, bird chest, only now starting to show proper definition. His palm comes to rest over Tim's heart, and it takes Tim a moment to realize Bruce isn't just feeling it beat.

That's where the 'R' will be.

"Shower," Bruce says, and the hand withdraws. "I'll have your suit ready by the time you're done. Just-" he clarifies when Tim's heart starts beating at double time, "-intelligence. No intervention until I say so, no matter what kind of trouble you think I'm in. Sex workers have always responded better to Robin."